


Thus Unfurled

by AetherAria



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Holidays, Lizard Kissin' Tuesday (Penumbra Podcast), Other, Party, Saintsrise, Second Citadel (Penumbra Podcast), hey how was that not already a recognized tag, just a lot of gentle... yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherAria/pseuds/AetherAria
Summary: The last day of Saintsrise, and two present have never celebrated before.
Relationships: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla (Penumbra Podcast), also everyone is friends everyone loves each other i love all of them HECK
Comments: 24
Kudos: 126





	Thus Unfurled

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Years! Happy Lizard Kissin'! I'm emotional and sappy and hey, y'all? I really, really love you. Thank you for being so kind to me this year, and I hope next year is even better. Also, Olala is here? Don't question it. Her stuff got resolved, probably. It's not important right now. Now? It's about food and fun and loving each other. The title is from the Saintsrise carol Sir Angelo sings at the beginning of Frozen King Of Flame. <3

Arum does not mind the celebratory aspect of this particular human holiday. There is food to be had, and drink and song and revelry, and Damien especially seems charmed by the symbolism of the year turning over, of the demarcation of time, though Arum cannot help but think of it as somewhat arbitrary. Every day they are a year from the same day the year previous, are they not? He supposes such things can be _useful_ , in their way. He has half his mind on the next human Festival of the Three, since it will mark a much more personally meaningful unit of time; a full year he has known his honeysuckle, and near to that for his Amaryllis as well.

Saintsrise is near triple the length of that festival, though. The humans do not intrude upon his space for the _entirety_ of their celebrations, but he has seen more of Sir Marc and Talfryn in the last week than he had in the three months previous. Of course, Sir Marc had been gone for much of that time, and the child has made his visits more frequent since his return, so perhaps that is unfair.

This last day of the festivities, Sir Damien and Amaryllis have convinced him to allow the lot of them to come spend the evening in the Keep. All of them. _Together_.

It is, perhaps, the loudest it has been inside of his Keep since the assault. Arum believes that Sir Marc is a distinct factor in the creation of _noise_ , he and Damien’s little rival with the booming voice and proclivity for running shoulder-first into doorframes and breaking chairs. They seem to egg each other on, even, and Arum rolls his eyes as they set to arm wrestling for perhaps the third time tonight (Sir Marc has not, as yet, managed to win).

It does grow too much for him, eventually, too overwhelming in brightness and sound, and Arum retreats to darker parts of the Keep to unclench his fists and breathe in the quiet for a long moment or two. The Keep lilts gently, and it drapes vines around his shoulders, and Arum can feel its mellow pleasure, that he and it have been included in this enthusiastic revelry, that there is so much joy and life within its walls, tonight, and Arum is glad for that, if nothing else. His Keep deserves a little joy, deserves to feel such love. The Keep preens at these thoughts, and reminds Arum that he, too, deserves love, deserves joy.

Amaryllis and Damien come to find him after a time. They know him enough, now, to understand that he would grow overwhelmed in such an environment, and they come only gently, only smiling, and Arum holds them to his chest, squeezing tight and nuzzling his snout against their hair and feeling them as a steadying presence. Rilla presses a kiss to his cheek, then, and Damien gazes up at him with so much joy, and then he allows them to take his hands and lead him back to the party proper.

Olala, clinging to Sir Angelo’s leg, asks about the celebration, about why this Ferdinand gets a day less than his brothers merely for being _small_ , her voice full to bursting with a fierce and childish sense of injustice, and Arum and Amaryllis smile in tandem as Damien’s eyes brighten, as he stands and begins to tell the tale. Arum tunes out the words, but only because Damien gave him the same story only days before, and Arum remembers well enough. He would rather spend his attention watching Damien instead, eyes sharp on the enthusiastic gesturing of his hands, on the curve of his smile, the way his curls bounce as he grows more animated in his excitement. Amaryllis comes to sit beside him with a mug of mead to share, and he curls around her and they both watch their poet delight in his tale as the little changeling watches with eyes shining just as bright.

The feast is rather decadent, larger on this last night than on the nights previous, and besides the main meal, everyone has brought something special to share. Even Olala, who spent the day baking beside Marc. This, apparently, is the third of their attempted cakes, and though it looks slightly lopsided it smells delightfully like honey and cinnamon and ginger, and the decoration is colorful and enthusiastic, if childish. Arum wonders which of the two is more responsible for that part of it. Angelo brought a bright, fragrant curry, and Talfryn came with enough of his mother’s blend of spiced tea to make an entire pot, and then another when the first is drained.

Arum, Damien, and Amaryllis spent their day poring over a recipe from one of her fathers. Arum does not typically take well to recipes, but- for this one, he held his tongue. The resulting rasgulla are soft and sweet and _perfect_ , if the ones sacrificed to their taste-tests are any indication, and Talfryn in particular lights up when he sees them, making Rilla grin with an infectious sort of pride.

They eat their fill, and there is so much left that Arum does not know what they will do with it all when the celebrations are finished.

There are games, then. Nothing that requires much _movement_ , they are all far too full for that, but Sir Marc leads them in some word games, and Sir Angelo seems to know a rather ridiculous number of guessing games and the like, and eventually when those scatter off to inattention Damien recites a poem that seems more word-game than anything, itself. A sort of verbal play, a tongue twister that bounces and lilts and rhymes through nonsense and even Sir Marc applauds when Damien careens through to the end.

Olala yawns wide, her little voice squeaking as she leans into Marc’s side, and the knight looks overwhelmingly fond as he ruffles her hair.

“Well, looks like we’re all pretty ready to wind it down, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, probably. It’s been- really fun, actually,” Tal says brightly, through a yawn of his own.

“Quite a boisterous evening! It is merely a shame that Captain Sir Caroline could not join in the festivities as well.”

Perhaps half the room winces in tandem at the suggestion, but no one disabuses Angelo of the notion that Caroline would rather be here with a monster (and possibly worse- _Sir Damien_ ) rather than South for her own holiday. Arum saw her briefly on the second day of Saintsrise, when they had been clustered all in Rilla’s front room eating sweets and playing games, and she had very politely pretended that Arum did not exist. Arum was relieved to return the favor, and she had excused herself rather early.

“The celebration is- is _over_ , then?” Olala says, tilting her head and clutching her tail and looking both sleepy and disappointed that the evening may not continue.

“Not just yet,” Damien says warmly, his arm curled around Rilla’s waist. “The celebration may not end until the final words are said.”

Olala blinks, clearly confused, and Arum narrows his eyes for much the same reason.

“The person in attendance who has seen the fewest Saintsrises,” Angelo says dutifully, eager as a schoolboy, “must say “may we love one another as family until the Saints rise again,” to call the festivities to an end.”

Damien smiles in Arum's direction, and Amaryllis does the same with a playfully quirked eyebrow, and Marc wears an expression that Arum believes could be called a _leer_. The remaining few follow suit in the staring, after that.

Arum blinks, and then when the implication hits him his frill flares wide and he leaps to standing, defensive immediately.

“N- _no_ , certainly- do not look at _me_ , that is ridiculous, certainly the _child_ -”

“How many Saintsrises have you celebrated, exactly, Scales?” Marc asks with a less-than-sly grin. “Ten? Twelve?”

“ _None_ , obviously, _takatakataka_. I don’t believe in your ridiculous _ghosts_ ,” he snarls, and Marc’s grin widens with a gleeful laugh.

“So you’ve celebrated _exactly_ as many - as few, excuse me - Saintsrises as the kid,” he says, and Arum growls lightly before Damien stands as well and puts a hand on his shoulder, and the noise in Arum’s throat tapers off.

“We will not make you do anything you do not wish to, my lily,” he says gently. “If little Olala would be so kind as to say the words, I am sure we would be delighted. That would work precisely as well.”

Olala perks up, and she stands as well. She nods, and grins, but-

Arum can see that she is nervous. The corners of her mouth do not turn so high as they usually do, and her tail curls around her own ankle. It is a nervous tic Arum recognizes, one that the little childling must have picked up from Arum himself.

Arum feels his frill still flaring, embarrassment at both the idea that he would say something so _ridiculous_ as well as the knowledge of all these assembled mammals seeing him so agitated by the idea. He- he does not wish to be the one to close this ceremony. He holds no stock in tradition, he acknowledges no _Saints_ , they only include him in such revelry out of deference to his lovers, surely-

But Olala is sleepy and burying her nervousness in a dutiful sort of excitement, and for Arum, it is always easier to stand when he needs not stand alone.

So Arum sighs, and he reaches out a hand. Olala doesn’t even hesitate to slot her tiny fingers between his own (tipped with claws at the moment, she has grown claws to match him, clever little creature) and the sigh fades into a smile when she blinks up at him.

“May we… may we love one another as family,” he says, and Olala echoes a half-second behind, and then fits into a unison on the second half with her gentle lisp bouncing the words chipper and high, “until the Saints rise again.”

The humans cheer and the Keep sings for the sake of joining in the noise, and it is possible that Sir Marc is still laughing at him, but Arum no longer cares. Olala looks up at him again, grinning with sharp teeth, enthusiastic and not even remotely shy, and Arum barely feels foolish as he smiles back. He chuckles, then lifts the childling into the air, letting her scream a laugh before he arranges her to sit upon his shoulders, her tiny hands gripping his horns for purchase, and that would be worth the ridiculousness just for her bouncing laughter, though the utterly charmed look that Sir Damien gives him is certainly pleasant as well.

 _May we love one another as family_.

He does. Already, Arum does.

Sir Angelo throws an arm around Sir Marc’s shoulders and another around Talfryn’s, and both burst into laughter at Angelo’s pink-cheeked delight and his enthusiastic but scratchy-voiced caroling. Amaryllis embraces Sir Damien, pressing a kiss to his flushing cheek, and Olala’s tiny hands grip Arum's horns with clumsy care.

Arum does not give any credence to the human Saints, though he attempts not to mock them quite so loudly for Damien’s sake, but-

There is something to the idea of this holiday, he thinks. Olala laughs above him and Rilla joins Angelo’s song, now, softening and supporting, and Arum loves her, and loves Damien joining in beside her, loves his Keep, loves very gently this strange child on his shoulders as she attempts to hum where she does not know the words, as she winds a soft tail like a scarf around his neck. He has affection enough, even, for the brothers, for Sir Angelo, and not only for how they love and are loved by those beloved to him. He cares for them each in their own right, as well.

 _Love one another as family_.

He hopes the Saints do not deign to rise again so long as he lives. Arum finds he would much prefer no condition upon which this feeling will end. He would much prefer it, if he may to continue to love every one of these baffling, charming creatures as his family for the rest of his life.


End file.
